Another Day, Crack-Style
by Loafer
Summary: Total crack-fic about a number of improbabilities in many psych-fics over the last... well… always. Collaboration with Lawson227. Oh, I almost forgot: heheheheh.


**Disclaimer**: I own the world. But not _**psych**_.

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: this crack-fic was born out of a conversation between me and Lawson227 about a number of improbabilities we've seen in many, many, many _psych_-fics over the last... well… always. Today seemed like a day to play a perverse sort of homage to those improbabilities by way of a crack collaboration. Salute to Lawson227 for taking my dare to contribute the Lassiter section so I could post the whole treasure.

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One day on her way to work, Juliet's Beetle was run over by a Mack truck. She, despite the loss of both arms and one leg, dragged herself out and hailed a cab, convincing the driver with a hot kiss from Her Sexiness to take her to the police station. (He did complain that he'd have preferred she had the flu or a stomach bug since blood made him queasy.)

When she got there, hopping on her one good leg and bleeding from everywhere else, Buzz McNab (or Buz McNabb, as some have it) rushed up to her and said, "Detective! What happened to your badge?"

With horror, she realized it was missing and probably stuck in the smashed Bug, which by now was probably a dozen miles away, stuck as it was to the front of the Mack truck, which had stopped just long enough for her to get out. She wondered idly where her limbs were. If she could remember the license plate of the truck, she could have its location tracked. Even getting one arm back would be handy.

"The Chief won't like that," he warned her about the missing badge.

"You seem tense," she commented casually, propping herself up against the bulletin board and ashamed that she was dripping blood on the Workers' Comp notice.

"It's been a long morning."

It was nine o'clock, so she understood completely.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Nearly four hours earlier, Lassiter strode into the precinct, the tube from his morning I.V. of coffee dangling from his arm.

"Uh... Detective—" Buzz stammered, as he stared with great admiration at the man he (rightfully, in Lassiter's opinion) considered his idol.

"Need to be prepared at all times, McNab," Lassiter barked. But the lunkhead had a point. Lassiter ripped the I.V. free and tore McNab's uniform sleeve off to staunch the blood flow. "Just a flesh wound," he declared to the admiring rookie (even though the man had been a member of the force for over eight years). "Now, I'm off to the shooting range to decimate things that need decimating."

"Of course, sir. Is there anything else you need?" McNab asked, the appropriately adoring expression in his eyes reminding Lassiter of a hound dog.

"Make sure you sort through those case files and evidence, and set aside the most relevant ones."

"Which would those be, sir?"

"All of them, you nimble-minded jinglehammer," Lassiter snapped.

After a satisfying three hours spent shooting decorative patterns in targets that he'd then build frames for and sell for a tidy profit on eBay, Lassiter returned to the bullpen, pleased to discover that for once, McNab had followed his instructions, up to strapping Spencer to a chair with duct tape in order to keep him from laying his grubby little probably-hadn't-been-washed-since-the-first-Bush-A dministration paws on the doughnuts, coffee, and Excedrin that were his standing Tuesday morning orders. He'd even slapped a nice strip of decorative hot pink duct tape over Spencer's mouth, which muffled his protests in a way Lassiter would find highly amusing if not for the fact that the high-pitched squeals exacerbated his perpetual migraine.

"McNab!" he roared.

The eight-year-rookie came scurrying in on his size twelves, hair standing on end in a way that reminded Lassiter of a deranged squirrel. He'd have to get a haircut or risk the possibility of being accidentally shot.

"Sir? Did I forget anything? I'm sorry sir—I'll write myself up."

"Shut it," Lassiter snapped. "Where's O'Hara?"

"I think I hear her now, sir." He glanced over his shoulder, and immediately looked appalled. "Oh no…"

He took off running, and Lassiter, knowing O'Hara was a stellar officer, judged it to be a situation which could wait until he had completed the rest of his routine.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet soothed Buzz, because her problems were immaterial. He had much more on his plate in comparison.

"What's going on?" demanded Lassiter, approaching with an armful of casefiles, two boxes of evidence (one on each shoulder), a backpack full of doughnuts, a carafe of coffee strapped to each thigh and clear signs of a headache even a case full of Excedrin couldn't help. Juliet made a note to suggest he alternate coffee IVs with Excedrin IVs.

"Small problem with my badge," she explained. "Buzz, would you please go over to Sergeant Allen's desk and call 911? I feel just a little woozy, so I might need an ambulance, and since Chief Vick will most likely suspend me for having lost my badge as well as ruining the Workers' Comp sign, I'll have the spare time to check in with a doctor."

"Nonsense," Lassiter said, raking her from top to bottom with his steely blue Gaze of Assessment. "Those are only flesh wounds. I'll take you to the hospital." He dumped everything except the backpack and carafes in Buzz's arms and took hold of Juliet's nearest bloody stump. "Come on. It's just six blocks away. We'll walk."

She thought about it. There were some high curbs she wasn't sure she could manage, but it wasn't as if she hadn't lost a leg before. All part of a day's work.

He clarified, "Well, okay, I'll walk, you hop. Come on! Vick'll be back in under fifteen minutes from thirty meetings which all started at 8:00, and one of them's about us finally being able to arrest anyone who can't spell Santa Barb**a**ra properly."

Juliet drew herself up tall. He was right. Time to stop being a baby.

They started out briskly, losing only a little momentum when they had to fend off an attack by six muggers armed with tasers, knives and UZIs. Juliet did her part, earning Lassiter's blue glare of appreciation as she fired from a spare gun she kept in her cheek, and three blocks later, he gave her a sip—only one, but it was elixir—from his left-thigh-carafe.

"Better?"

"Yes, but oh... damn. There goes part of my spine. Crap, that'll take longer in E/R. Could you pick up my vertebrae, please?"

He grudgingly did so, and then they were hit by a meteor, but in the final moments before their brains blew up, they shared a tender kiss and knew complete happiness.

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**T H E**

**E N D**


End file.
